Confrontation
by VolcanicPizza
Summary: Glen Maximilian Tinker is an ordinary civilian living a dead-end life. None of this will change when the lights go dark and nothing in the modern world works anymore. (Rated T for language. One-shot.)


**A/N: Hello, all! This is my first story for Emberverse, but I won't go through all of the 'don't be critical' stuff you've probably heard a hundred times over. And remember, this is a one-shot, so it shall not be continued beyond this.**

 _Niagara County, New York, March 17th, 1998, 9:14 PM_

Most people would be winding down their days with a late-night TV show, or maybe a glass of wine and a novel or pulp magazine.

Glen Maximilian Tinker was not "most people."

In fact, he was sitting on his swivel chair with a glass of apple cider, frantically scribbling away in a notebook. A book on the Second Mexican Empire sat in front of him, describing Maximilian I's coronation as the Mexican Emperor, and his computer was open to a map of the Second Mexican Empire's provinces.

His expertise was history. However, here he was writing an alternative look at events, where the empire had been able to crush the republican uprisings and established an empire after basically taking America's role in the Spanish-American war. The general effect was that Mexico was a lot more dominant than in true history and a global superpower.

Ironically, he didn't have a trace of Mexican blood in him. Mostly English, with some Irish and German mixed in. Supposedly his great-grandfather had been a quarter Belgian, too.

At any rate, being a small-town failing historical researcher wasn't being a good life. He could barely afford this tiny house without financial aid from his younger brother, damn it. He didn't care to be unemployed at twenty-six, and yet he was.

Suddenly, Glen saw a blinding flash of light and felt a pain in his head like he'd never felt before. With a gasp, he doubled over, the world reeling around him, clutching his head. _What is this insanity?_ he cried out in a burst of pain.

Then, it was gone, and the lights were out.

Glen stumbled over to the wall and flicked the switch. Nothing happened. _Damn. They cut my power again because I forgot to pay the bills or something._ He walked back to his desk and saw that the computer had gone out, too, its screen dark. "Well, fuck you, too," he said, and flipped it off. _Goddamn new technology, can't rely on anything these days..._

Fumbling his way downstairs, he managed to get into the kitchen and opened the drawer. Pulling out the flashlight, he clicked it. Nothing.

 _What the hell?_ He clicked the switch some more, but nothing happened. _Probably just the batteries... and I don't have any extra batteries in the house. Damn._

He managed to find a matchbook and some candles, and using these managed to find his way through his clutter-strewn house and out to the front porch.

Cars were stopped in the middle of the street, their occupants getting out and kicking them or bending over inside the hoods. Above, an airplane plummeted down from the sky.

It fell in the west, and the plume of fire was horrific.

Gasping, Glen hurried inside and locked the door. "What's happening?" he moaned. "The world has gone mad." He crawled into a corner and curled into the fetal position.

After a moment, he managed to get up and hurried outside to the shed. _I wish I had a gun, but I don't think I could afford one anyway. I guess a shovel will have to do._ Snatching up a shovel, he shut the door to the shed and turned around.

 _I won't expect anything less than total breakdown within minutes,_ Glen thought as he walked back around to the front of his house, _and I'd expect gun-toting maniacs to be showing up even earlier than that._

As he went to open the door, he heard a click behind him.

"Now, put your hands in the air," a slow voice drawled behind him, "and turn around real slow or I'm going to shoot your goddamn dick off."

Wishing to keep said part in its proper place, Glen raised his hands and turned slowly around.

A man was standing there, the shadows of night darkening his features. "Now, open the door to your house."

Fumbling with the door, Glen opened the doorknob, anxiety making him nervous. Sweat poured from his forehead.

"And now, you die anyway." Pointing the gun at Glen's head, the man pulled the trigger.

 _Click._

"What the shit?" the man snarled.

 _Click._

 _Click._

 _Click._

 _Click._

 _Click._

The gun wouldn't fire.

Face ashen, the man stepped back. "Now look here, buddy, I wasn't trying to pull anything here! Just let me go without-"

Glen slammed the shovel into his head as hard as he could. The man sprawled with a satisfying crunch, and the historian stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

"Is this the end?" Glen muttered to himself.

A plunging noise sounded above. Glen made his way to the window, in a daze, and looked upward.

Above him, another jet was plummeting. It was clear that it was going to fall within meters of his house.

"Why bother?" Glen asked.

The plane impacted in his backyard, mere feet from his window.


End file.
